


Bump in the Attic

by CoffeeColoredMornings



Series: Hoard of Value [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Gay Sex, Halloween, Lingerie, M/M, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, PWP, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Shameless Smut, Smut, Teasing, Top Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups, am i supposed to tag every sexual element?, jihoon dresses as a modest kitten, not sure how to tag, pretty sure there's some neck biting, shameless excuse for halloween smut, they kiss, they touch dicks too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 09:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeColoredMornings/pseuds/CoffeeColoredMornings
Summary: Jihoon is selectively social, which is just a nice way of saying he has a small friend group and doesn't like to get out much. But, with Sigma Theta Nu's legendary Halloween party on the horizon, Jihoon finds himself coerced into attending.Costume shenanigans ensue. Seungcheol becomes a blubbering idiot at the sight of too much skin. Jihoon needs some convincing to get on a bed.Or: Halloween sex just because.





	Bump in the Attic

**Author's Note:**

> 6/11/20: Minor formatting changes
> 
> Been a hot sec since I last wrote something, so sorry if this is shit. This is lightly edited - I also decided three-quarters in to change tenses - so please forgive any mistakes.
> 
> Alternative title: Too much verbal foreplay.
> 
> Title from: Lola Blanc - The Magic.

Jihoon does not consider himself antisocial per se, more so selectively social. Or, as selectively social as one can get with boisterous friends like Seungkwan and Seokmin. The two younger men are balls of bright energy and lively banter; Jihoon is a ball of obstinacy and scathing sarcasm. Yet, they are his closest friends in college - having met in Jihoon’s sophomore year, in an introductory music composition class.

For better or worse, they stuck together and slowly immersed Jihoon into a larger circle of friends. Well, friends as Seungkwan and Seokmin call them. Jihoon leans more towards acquaintances with varying levels of familiarity - he can argue that Jeonghan and Jisoo are friends, even Soonyoung, though the boy flares too brightly sometimes. Others, Jihoon knows only in passing - names traded in flitting conversation and polite greetings in the daily bustle on campus.

Perhaps, if he only got out more, he would be able to pinpoint all of the members of his <strike>friend</strike> acquaintance group in a crowd. But, much as in the current situation, Jihoon opts to stay in the comfortable confines of his room.

“But, hyung, it’s _the_ Halloween mixer!” Seungkwan says for the nth time that evening. The exclamation originally tinged with excitement is now sour with exasperation.

Jihoon merely grunts from his slumped position in bed. He already exhausted his replies, namely in the form of arched eyebrows and ‘so what?’ and ‘I don’t care’. He briefly considers a curt ‘fuck off’, but dismisses it just as quickly, too lazy to summon the right inflection his voice will need for the two words to carry any meaning.

“We have to go,” Seungkwan raves on, “Sigma Theta Nu throw the best parties, and their Halloween mixers are legendary. Plus, Hansol invited us.”

“You can go. Far be it from me to get in between you seeing Hansol,” Jihoon says. That should be the end of the argument, in Jihoon’s mind, it _is_ the end of the argument. But Seungkwan is determined and not alone.

“Mingyu, Jisoo, and Seungcheol invited us too,” Seokmin speaks up, his voice carrying from Jihoon’s small kitchen. “Everyone will be there. Seriously hyung, it would really disappoint everyone if you didn’t come.”

“I doubt that. Just bring some tequila, say it was from me, and everyone will be fine.”

“Lee Jihoon, you promised!” Seungkwan hisses, voice pitching shrill and demanding. He straightens his posture in Jihoon’s desk chair, cheeks puffing and eyes alight with vicious determination. “You promised you would get out more and go to more parties with us. So far, you’ve been doing a piss poor job of maintaining that promise, and it ends now. You will go to the Halloween mixer! Or, do I need to bring Jeonghan hyung into this?”

Loathe as Jihoon is to admit it, Seungkwan can cut an intimidating figure when he slips into his mom-mode. Worse yet, is the threat of Jeonghan - a demon in all but face. Jihoon met his match when he finally got to know his angel-faced hyung, and he knows any involvement of the elder will result in a solid defeat for himself.

But, Jihoon is nothing if not stubborn. Pulling a last attempt defense, he slowly levers himself up, fixing Seungkwan with his iciest glare. He imagines, in some back corner of his mind, he looks akin to the vampires in old Hollywood movies - rising from his coffin just as the guileless protagonist steps into his lair.

(If he asks Seungkwan for his opinion — which he will not — Jihoon looks closer to a perturbed housecat than a bloodsucking fiend.)

“I have gone to parties this year, and I have gotten out more. Hell, I went to noraebang last weekend with you and the others. So, _no_, I will _not_ be going to this stupid Halloween mixer, and if you even think about bringing Jeonghan into this I will. Break. Your. Fingers,” Jihoon spits the last few words, adding just enough venom to his voice to let Seungkwan know that he isn’t joking. Probably.

Seungkwan gulps, his earlier flush of determination flooding out and leaving a sickly pallor in its place. He’s seen Jihoon take down men twice his size — verbally in academic settings and with his surprisingly well-hidden physique on rowdier nights out. Seokmin however — ray of sunshine that he is — is not intimidated as he waltzes into the room, a large pan of tteokbokki and fishcakes in his hand.

Setting the pan down on Jihoon’s desk, he turns to address said man, his own smile not wavering even under the weight of the shorter male’s glare. “You left two of the parties early and didn’t even drink or talk to anyone at the last one. Which, by the way, you still owe Mingyu an apology for since he spent the better part of two hours trying to get you to loosen up. And, speaking of Mingyu, you kept calling him Minghao at noraebang last weekend.”

“Then what did I call Minghao?”

“Minghao wasn’t there.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Seokmin mocks, his sunny smile still in place. “It’s just one night, hyung. Just go and let loose. By then, you’ll need to get out — we know you’ll be holed up too much in your studio over the next few weeks for midterms.”

“Fine,” Jihoon grumbles, crawling out of his bed and sticking an ambitious mouthful of tteokbokki in his mouth. Chewing around a dense number of rice cakes, he puts the final nail in the coffin of their argument, “but I’m not wearing a costume.”

**

Hindsight is 20/20. Jihoon should have known that he wouldn’t get away with his ‘no costume’ stance. Over the past few weeks, Seungkwan and Seokmin have wheedled him down into wearing a costume.

Unfortunately, his choice of a zombie attack victim is not acceptable. ‘_It’s disgusting, hyung_’, ‘_How are you expected to get laid?_’, ‘_It’s a bit lazy_’ — Seokmin’s feedback, mild as it is, pushes Jihoon into a corner.

Frustrated as he is with midterms, more frustrating are the needling notifications from Seungkwan and Seokmin with costume ideas, ranging from ludicrous (Jihoon will be caught dead before he dresses up as a Teletubby) to a stone throw away from being a BDSM stripper (how all those leather straps compose themselves into a costume is beyond him).

It is only after a late-night stint where Jihoon finds himself nearly an hour into a Naver search for a costume, that he gives in and sends a text to the one person whose involvement in this fiasco he wants little to do with.

Jihoon stares at the baby pink kitten ears and matching lace collar with unveiled mistrust. Jeonghan stands in front of him, placid smile on his face as he snaps a matte pink, leather leash. The resulting sound is eerily similar to a gunshot, and Jihoon jerks in response as if hit by an invisible bullet.

_Bullet’s probably pink too_, Jihoon thinks, a sneer growing on his face as he takes the time to eye the full costume laid out on Jeonghan’s bed.

“No. No way.” Jihoon shakes his head, firm denial in his mind. Yet, he can’t stop his hand from reaching out and fingering the silky material of what seems to be a very, very skimpy pair of pink shorts.

“Just try it on,” Jeonghan urges, scooping the various material and accessories into an unidentifiable buddle. “I think you’ll be surprised by how you look.”

“Stupid. I’ll look stupid.”

“No, no, my little Jihoonie, you’ll look sexy.” Jeonghan keeps his thin-lipped smile in place at Jihoon’s dubious expression and pushes the younger boy towards his bathroom.

“Just go, try it on. If you really don’t like it, we’ll think of alternatives.”

Jihoon grumbles but allowed himself to be herded into the bathroom. The door snicking shut thankfully blocks out Jeonghan’s amused giggles, leaving Jihoon to contemplate the glaring bundle of pink and white before him.

With great reluctance, Jihoon strips down to his boxers, then eyes the silky pink boy shorts, before stripping out of his boxers too. He slips each item of clothing on mechanically. The boy shorts (read: panties) cling obscenely to him, resting just at the top of his thighs; Jihoon will never admit it, but the material makes him shudder as it shifts against his bare skin. The soft, white crop top stretches snug across his chest and the arms hang down past the tip of his fingers; his abs - carefully cultivated from a strict gym regime - are on full display, and at odds with the delicate materials wrapped around his body.

He saves the accessories for last: tripping into the white and pink kitten stockings that grip tightly to his thighs; the pink kitten ears poke up from his blond mess of hair; the lacey collar sits right over his Adam’s apple; and, finally, the leash attaches to the collar with a soft, but definite _click_. It takes him a moment to work up the courage to look at himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. What he sees confirms his initial assessment.

He is a dichotomy of fine fabrics, supple skin, and hard plans of muscle. Turning to the side, Jihoon runs a tentative hand down his profile. His lungs feel too tight and small for his chest. He looks _different_ \- different in a way he isn’t accustomed to.

Jihoon is a man of oversized t-shirts and flannels, of skinny jeans and slides. He is mild and enjoys the comforts of casual clothes and overgrown bangs. The Jihoon in the mirror is the antithesis of everything he is: verging beyond cute and into sexy, fair skin on display, supple flesh pushing and shifting under an array of lacy pink and cotton whites.

Shifting more to see the play of silk outlining his ass, Jihoon gives himself a mental pat on his back for daily squats; he ass looks _great_. For a quick moment, Jihoon imagines rough hands gripping his hips, sliding down the curve of his ass to settle and leave deep bruises on his thighs. As quickly as the thought comes, it leaves, and the muted trickle of Jeonghan’s voice echoes from down the hall.

“Jeonghan,” he starts, pulling open the bathroom door and following the sound of the other’s voice to a small living room. “I don’t think this is going to wo-.”

A strange choking noise fills the sudden silence of the room. It takes Jihoon a moment to realize the noise is coming from him, which - when he thinks about it - explains the tight squeezing of his throat.

Jeonghan is not alone.

A tall, dark-haired boy stands next to him. His doe-eyes wide in shock as they rove over every inch of Jihoon’s costumed body, stopping somewhere along his hip-line. “

H-ho-...thi-thi…” The dark-haired boy babbles senselessly.

Heat explodes across Jihoon’s face. His embarrassment is not a slow blooming of color, it is an immediate hit of incarnadine from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck.

In the back of his mind, beneath the flush of mortification and the faint ringing in his ears, Jihoon recognizes the other boy. His name starts with an ‘S’, this much Jihoon knows. Jihoon also knows the boy has a bright gummy smile, biceps and thighs thick enough to challenge tree branches, and a voice deep with occasional gravel that never fails to send shivers down his spine.

“I believe,” Jeonghan says, an eyebrow arching imperiously, “Seungcheol here is trying to say ‘hot’, and maybe ‘thigh’?” He runs a slow, critical eye over Jihoon’s frozen form. “Yep. Thigh.”

There is no grace in Jihoon’s hasty retreat from the room, nor is there intelligence in the stuttered ‘eep’ that accompanies said exit.

His back thuds against the bathroom door as he slams it shut with his weight, uncaring of the dangerous clattering of the body-length mirror. It is just his luck, that out of everyone in their <strike>friend</strike> acquaintance group, the one that sees him in this costume, is the one who Jihoon may have a slight, unadmitted attraction to.

**

It takes Jeonghan, Seokmin, and Seungkwan nearly the full week leading up to the party to talk Jihoon back into going and back into the slightly modified cat costume.

The cat ears, lacy collar, and matte leash are still staples of the costume. But Jeonghan compromises on a thin, oversized sweater and black skinny jeans. The sweater slips past the tips of Jihoon’s fingers and the crew neck is stretched so badly that it keeps slipping of one shoulder.

Jeonghan won’t tell him where he got the sweater but smiles every time Jihoon tries to shrug the soft cotton back in place.

The jeans aren’t much better. Jeonghan had lounged on his bed for an entire evening, making Jihoon go through every pair of jeans he owned until he found a pair that met his satisfaction. The pair in question has rarely been worn, namely because they are so tight Jihoon can’t wear his boxers, and they are ripped to tatters with enough gaping holes that he might as well not be wearing any jeans at all.

“Exactly,” Jeonghan had said, circling a shifty Jihoon once he slipped into the pants. “That’s the point, we want to show off as much skin as we can ...while still adhering to whatever fucked up sense of modesty you’re clinging to.”

“But, I can’t even wear boxers with these,” Jihoon had tried to argue.

The slow-spreading smirk on Jeonghan’s face had let him know he would have been better off biting his tongue.

**

The Sigma Theta Nu house is a garish testament to Halloween and stereotypical frat parties. A tangled assortment of large Halloween decorations stuff the yard. Fake spider webs cover nearly surface not habited by too large decorations and littered with bright red cups; swaying figures of drunk party-goers stand between menacing shadows of the decorations.

Lights pulse out through misty windows -- no doubt due to the body heat trapped inside the house warring with the nipping cold of autumn air outside. A low, consistent bass reverberates through the air and ground, setting off small rhythmic jolts in Jihoon’s stomach.

Fidgeting with the end of his leash, Jihoon follows Seungkwan and Seokmin inside.

Stepping into the house is unpleasant. The body heat has built up like a solid wall, and passing into it from the chill of outside sends prickles skittering across Jihoon’s skin. The sharp tang of alcohol mixes with a haze of weed, and subtle undercurrents of pizza mix with sweat and cheap perfumes.

Jihoon’s heart jumps into his throat; the bass is twice as loud inside. His body throbs to the steady beat, the soles of his feet absorbing rumble blaring through the speakers. A grumbling rap mixes with husky female vocals, pressing too tightly against his eardrums. Multi-colored lasers flash in a dizzy play of lights, casting shadows just as quickly as they illuminate the heaving throng of bodies on the living-room-turned-dance-floor.

A firm tug on his wrist makes Jihoon look up. Seokmin’s face flashes red, purple, black. Another tug and Jihoon follows his lead down a long hall into a less crowded kitchen. Though, less crowded did not mean much at this party. Jihoon still squeezes past people, taking a small measure of comfort in Seokmin’s unwavering grip on his wrist.

“Where’s Seungkwan?” Jihoon asks once they claim a small corner of space near the fridge.

“Saw Hansol, so he took off,” Seokmin says, a slight shrug accompanying the explanation.

“Figures.”

Seokmin laughs and reaches around the smaller boy to pull a couple of beers off of the counter. He cracks them open, handing one to Jihoon and keeping the other for himself.

Jihoon takes a long gulp, not necessarily caring for the taste, but hoping the quicker he gets drunk the less intense atmosphere of the party will press in on him.

“Don’t worry hyung,” Seokmin finally says, swinging back the last dredges of his beer, “I won’t leave you -- unless, you want me to, of course.”

Rolling his eyes, Jihoon finishes off his beer as well. “You don’t have to stay. I know you have other friends here, and you haven’t shut up about seeing Soonyoung in his costume in the past week.”

“But, hyung…”

“It’s fine,” Jihoon says, trying to summon up a winning smile.

“Just go. I see some rum with my name on it.”

At Seokmin’s dubious look, Jihoon rolls his eyes again and pushes him away. “Seriously, dude, go. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Okay, but hyung, try to have some fun tonight.”

Jihoon nods and pushed the younger boy further away. He watches Seokmin slip through bodies with an easy grace before making his way to a counter lined with assorted alcohol, mixers, and cups.

He mixes himself a rum and coke - emphasis on the rum - before wandering past tightly packed bodies and back into the heart of the house, a destination already in mind.

After awkwardly wedging himself past one too many couples making out, and dodging an insistent pair of gripping hands, Jihoon makes his way up a staircase tucked against the back of the living room.

The second floor is decidedly calmer than the first. A small landing opens into a TV room, with two hallways branching off. Jihoon chooses the hallway on the left at random, ignoring the handful of people cozied up on a large L-shaped couch.

With surprising luck, the first door Jihoon tries mid-way down the hall opens into a blessedly empty bedroom.

The bedroom is clean enough. Minimalist in its furniture: two bedside tables, cluttered with electronics and half-empty glasses of water; a desk stacked with half-open books, a laptop, and smattering of papers; and an impressively sized bed - Jihoon guesses a queen by the look of it - with deep navy sheets, haphazardly pulled into a ‘made’ state.

The distinctive scent of lemongrass - no doubt coming from the candle at the edge of one of the bedside tables, clean sweat, and something deeper, sharper, like a rich cologne permeates the air. Jihoon takes a deep lungful - it’s pleasant, much more so than the rest of the house.

Jihoon eyes the bed for a moment, considering. He shook his head quickly, dispelling the thought, and settled for the safer seat in the desk chair. The last thing he wants is for the owner of the room to walk in and see Jihoon reclined on his bed. There are only so many excuses he could stutter to wave away what would be an undoubtedly awkward moment.

Gingerly fishing his phone out of his back pocket, Jihoon thumbs open Netflix and queues up the newest season of Peaky Blinders. He props his phone against some textbooks and flicks on the desk lamp, sending a soft sepia light into the room. Leaning back in the chair, he takes a long sip from his drink as the tinny sounds of the opening song filter into the muted quiet of the room.

He’s nearly done with the first episode, and more than done with his drink - feeling slightly lethargic, just on the right side of tipsy - when he hears the door swing open. Fumbling with his phone, he darts up from the chair, a slurry of excuses ready at the tip of his tongue.

“Sorry,” Jihoon begins, then stops. Staring at him is none other than tall, doe-eyed, and handsome. He is wearing a baseball uniform, a sinfully fitting, leave nothing to the imagination baseball uniform.

_Seungcheol_, Jihoon’s mind helpfully pings. “Sorry,” he says again, “I can leave. I-is this your room?”

Seungcheol nods slowly, bright brown eyes slowly tracing down Jihoon’s body. His eyebrow quirk as he takes in the too-large sweater and ripped to hell skinny jeans.

“You changed,” Seungcheol says, his voice rumbling together with the bass spilling in from the still-open door. A female singer's saccharine crooning wafts in, though the lyrics are indistinct.

“Huh?”

“Your costume, you changed,” Seungcheol explains again, waving a hand at Jihoon’s decidedly clothed figure.

“Yeah,” Jihoon begins slowly, feeling the familiar suffusion of heat sliding across his cheeks. “I - um - I didn’t like...the other outfit was a bit…”

An easy smile spreads across Seungcheol’s face at Jihoon’s stuttering. He slowly shuts the door, then slouches back against it, head cocking to the side, dark hair splaying across his forehead and casting his eyes in shadow.

“I liked the other costume,” Seungcheol says, easy smile still on his face and a teasing lilt to his voice. “This one’s nice, too, though. The sweater’s a bit big.”

“A bit is a bit of an understatement,” Jihoon snorts. “Jeonghan gave it to me, but I don’t know where he got it from -- it’s too big to be his.”

Seungcheol only offers a non-committal hum, eyes still locked onto Jihoon, tracking every minute shift of his body.

“Anyways, I’ll just leave and let you be,” Jihoon says, awkwardly trying to shove his phone into his back pocket of his too-tight jeans. He gives up a few seconds later and simply clutches it in his hand, waiting for the older boy to step away from the door so he can leave.

“You don’t have to,” Seungcheol says softly.

“But this is your room.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you were doing anything bad in it. Right?” Seungcheol’s easy smile slips into something a little bit darker. At Jihoon’s vehement ‘no’, Seungcheol nods. “So, you can stay. I just want some quiet for a bit.”

Finally hefting away from the door, Seungcheol skirts past Jihoon — passing a few scant inches away — before collapsing onto his bed.

Jihoon tries not to stare of the pert outline of Seungcheol’s ass in his baseball pants, at the tight pull of fabric over thick thighs and broad shoulders. Before he can look away, Seungcheol flips onto his back, propping himself up against his headboard.

Seungcheol quirks a playful eyebrow, a sharp smirk cutting across his lips. “You wanna sit?”

Jihoon plops unceremoniously back into the desk chair. He wills his tense muscles to relax, tries to calm the heat bubbling beneath his skin.

A gruff laugh rumbles through Seungcheol. He licks his lower lip slowly, smirk still in place.

_Damn him_, Jihoon thinks, _damn him and his plump lips, and devilish smirk, and artfully tousled hair._

“You wanna sit on the bed? I promise it’s much more comfortable than that desk chair,” Seungcheol says, patting the empty space next to him invitingly.

“Ah, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. Here — here is fine.” Jihoon says, fidgeting awkwardly in the chair because, in all reality, the chair is absolutely not fine, not when the offer of what appears to be an insanely soft bed occupied by a definitively hot man is on the table. But, if Jihoon is anything, it’s stubborn. And his stubborn ass has principles, one of them being an adamant hatred for drivers who don’t use their turn-signal when merging lanes. The other _clearly_ being to deny himself all pleasures in life because he’s _clearly_ a self-deprecating sadist, and joining Seungcheol on his bed _clearly_ falls under ‘all the pleasures in life’ category.

Seungcheol cocks his head to the side. The dim light from the nearby table lamps catching a teasing glint in eyes. He pats the empty space next to him — three firm slaps in quick succession. “Come on. Sit.”

Jihoon feels a keen swooping sensation in his lower stomach. He doesn’t know if it’s the knife-like edge of Seungcheol’s smirk or the smoky quality his voice takes on that acts as the hook in Jihoon’s gut; either way, as if pulled on a string, he rises from his place on the desk chair and floats to hover over the bed.

Seungcheol looks up at Jihoon; Jihoon looks down at Seungcheol. From his bird’s eye view, Seungcheol is deadly. Deep shadows play with stark illumination, bringing life to his angled jawline, sharp cheekbones, smooth, peach lips, and eyes that spark with something — something the shadows still keep at bay.

A dense smack sounds throughout the room as Seungcheol pats the spot next to him wordlessly.

Perching his phone on the bedside table, Jihoon gingerly sits down on the bed. For a moment, all he wants is to melt back into the plush pillows and soft mattress because _damn_ is Seungcheol’s bed soft. But, his mind, always ruining his moments of calm, reminds him he’s in _Seunghcheol’s bed_.

He coils tight, ready to spring or snap at the slightest movement. The lethargy from his rum and coke is long gone; he can feel the press of lace against his throat, the shallow expansion of his ribs on each breath in, the wall of warmth from Seungcheol’s body laying so closely to his.

Jihoon stares at the wall in front of him — doesn’t meet the curious gaze lingering on his face. “Why are you cool with me being here — in your room?” The ‘_in your bed_’ goes unsaid.

Seungcheol shifts closer with a soft grunt, his body reclining further against the headboard. “I know you don’t like parties,” he says, “and the idea of you hiding in my room to escape the party isn’t...I don’t mind. I know you got dragged to this party — Jeonghan told me — but, I’m glad you came to this one,” Seungcheol pauses, waits a moment for Jihoon to finally meet his gaze before his grin turns cheeky, “though, I miss your original costume.”

A light flush creeps across Jihoon’s skin. His throat feels tight. He doesn’t look away; Seungcheol’s eyes are molten, deep brown swirling with curiosity, a small ounce of hesitance, and pure, unadulterated _want_.

Breath shuddering out, Jihoon shifts closer, slowly. The rustle of bed sheets is achingly loud in the room. “It felt a bit awkward. This one is better,” Jihoon says, tugging the ends of one overly long sleeve. His right shoulder is exposed, the neck of the sweater sinking down to reveal the cut of his collarbones. “The sweater is too damn big, though.”

Seungcheol angles his body towards Jihoon, keeping only a breath of air between them. “I don’t think the original costume was awkward. It was hot as fuck. This costume,” Seungcheol grazes the back of his knuckles along the neck of the sweater, right where cotton and skin met, “is nice, too. But, if you don’t like the sweater, I can take it back.”

Jihoon swallows thickly. Seungcheol is still stroking along his collarbones, touch gentle and barely there. His mind is static, and his skin a hypersensitive bundle of nerves — Seungcheol’s touch like the passing of a feather. It takes a moment, perhaps too long, for Seungcheol’s words to sink in. “Take it back?”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol chuckles, voice no longer honey-smooth, but graveled. “It’s my sweater. Jeonghan borrowed it a week or so ago. I didn’t really question it, but I have to admit, it was a pleasant surprise to see you wearing it tonight."

Humming softly, Jihoon leans into Seungcheol’s touch just the tiniest bit. “Was it?”

“Yeah, I like seeing you wear my sweater. I like the way it fits you.”

“It doesn’t.”

Seungcheol pauses then presses closer; his lightly calloused palm flat on the bare skin between Jihoon’s shoulder and neck. “Exactly.”

Jihoon’s breath catches as Seungcheol trails his hand up his neck, cupping the edge of his jaw, fingers curling behind his ear. The edge of his palm resting on the edge of Jihoon’s collar, imprinting the lacy material into his skin.

They’re breathing each other’s air, light puffs of breath hitting their parted lips. Seungcheol traces the delicate curve of Jihoon’s cheek with his thumb. “What do you want me to do?”

Closing the space between them, Jihoon coasts his lips across Seungcheol’s. “Anything.”

Seungcheol’s hand tightens on his neck. He grips Jihoon’s hip with his other hand and jerks the younger boy closer until space is not a concept that exists between them. “You want this?”

Jihoon nods quickly, lips brushing against Seungcheol’s once again.

“To be clear, I am going to fuck you,” Seungcheol leans forward, placing a delicate kiss against Jihoon’s pulse point and counts five rabbit-fast beats before continuing, “I’m going to make you scream; I’m going to make you feel so good, baby. But,” he pulls back and locks eyes with Jihoon, “tell me to stop if you want to.”

“I won’t.”

Seungcheol smirks, “The offer is always there,” then closes the distance between them.

The first press of lips is firm but undemanding -- a testing of waters and Jihoon is ready to drown. The second press of lips and Jihoon commits himself to jump overboard. Seungcheol swoops back in, lips unyielding and coaxing Jihoon’s mouth open with small nips and smooth flicks of his tongue.

Jihoon lets Seungcheol in, let Seungcheol explore every inch of his mouth -- sliding over teeth and ridges -- tasting the lingering sweetness of rum and coke. A moan vibrates between them; Seungcheol pulling back to deliver a quick bite to Jihoon’s bottom lip in response.

Plowing his fingers in Seungcheol’s thick hair, Jihoon yanks him in for another kiss. He is greedy, taking his time to explore the older boy’s mouth, uncaring of the desperate whimpers venting from his throat.

Seungcheol groans and pulls back, sliding a hand to the nape of Jihoon’s neck and tugging at the lace collar, exposing the creamy column of Jihoon’s throat. Kiss slick lips trace a light path down — from Jihoon’s pulse to the hollow of his throat, before Seungcheol laps up the path again, this time with sharp bites and open-mouthed kisses. He stops, just above the lace of the collar, right below Jihoon’s pulse point, and a warm suction has Jihoon twitching against the solid press of Seungcheol’s body.

Each rasp of breath stings his throat; Jihoon is so hard already and he only has Seungcheol’s lips on his neck.

Jihoon can’t stop his sharp gasps as Seungcheol slowly lays claim to his neck: tongue skimming between his skin and the lace collar, lips and teeth painting a clear path down to his collarbone in red and purple. Nor can he stop the rhythmic thrust of his hips against the firm weight of Seungcheol’s thigh.

Seungcheol pulls back with a wet smack and sits up. “Off. Get this sweater off.”

Clumsily Jihoon grips the edges of the sweater and wrenches it off.

Seungcheol groans at the revealed expanse of smooth, pale skin and carefully defined muscle.

“Fuck, baby,” Seungcheol runs a teasing hand down his side, flicking sensitive nipples then stroking down to feel the ballooning of Jihoon’s ribs, thumbing at each notch of his abs. “You’re gorgeous.”

Jihoon is past the point of caring about the small desperate whimpers parting past his lips, or the furious heat of his blush staining his skin. He just wants the dark-haired man before him, he wants skin on skin, he wants fingers digging into his hips, he wants to be fucked.

Flipping fully on his back, Jihoon wraps his legs around Seungcheol’s waist, bending up to press further into explorative hands. A rough groan saws through his throat when Seungcheol fists the leash still connected to his collar and tugs, baring Jihoon’s neck and chest.

For a moment, Jihoon remains prone - body arched and open to Seungcheol’s hungry mouth. His synapses are firing lightning quick, registering the wet heat of Seunghcheol’s mouth on a nipple, the harsh twist of the other under firm fingers; breaths shuddering out into the air; the heavy roll of their hips against each other — the unmistakable outline of Seungcheol’s cock, a thick and heavy weight.

Jihoon’s blood roars in his ears. He grips Seungcheol’s biceps, clinging to the firm cording of muscle. “Pl-please,” he moans, not quite sure what he was asking for, but wanting all, anything, everything Seungcheol can offer.

A sharp nip just below his belly button stirs him from his daze. Eye slightly unfocused soon fix on Seungcheol. The older boy is looking up at him, lips swollen and colored an obscene red rubbing just so against his skin, pupils blown so wide his cinnamon irises are reduced to thin rings.

Hesitantly, Jihoon combs gently through Seungcheol’s thick locks, trailing across the curve of his cheekbone and down to his slightly parted lips.

Seungcheol’s tongue flicks out, licking the pad of Jihoon’s fingers before sucking them into his mouth with a small slurp.

“Fuck,” Jihoon moans, voice straining at the hot, wet suction on his fingers. It is a struggle to keep his head up, to keep his eyes open and locked onto Seungcheol as he swirls his tongue around two of Jihoon’s fingers before pulling off with a light _pop_.

Seungcheol rises up above Jihoon on his knees, hand squeezing at Jihoon’s thighs still wrapped around his waist, the matte pink leash still twined firmly around his fist. They pause for a moment, both breathing harshly.

Then, Jihoon surges forward. Contracting his stomach muscles to lever himself up and clutch Seungcheol’s shoulders. Their lips meet in an aggressive bump, lips parting quickly for tongues and shattered breaths to break through. Seungcheol bears Jihoon’s weight, keeps the younger’s legs around his waist and grips firm handfuls of his pert ass as he leans further into the kiss.

Jihoon jerks back when his lungs feel too tight, but he refuses to stay idle. Their mounting lust and desire are mixing into a heady cocktail, one that he needs to consume, that he can’t stop sipping at.

His lips move to Seungcheol’s neck, pressing his own branding marks into the skin as shaky finger prod and tug at Seungcheol’s baseball jersey, tired of being the only one without a shirt on and craving the feeling of the other boy’s skin. Seungcheol allows Jihoon a moment of tugging on his shirt — softly panting in his ear — before tugging him away and laying him flat on his bed.

“I got you, baby, just be good and patient for me,” Seungcheol murmurs against his lips before the blond can summon a complaining whine. He pulls away and quickly divesting himself of his clothing - he doesn’t bother making a show of it, all he wants is to return between the wantonly splayed thighs of the boy beneath him.

“_Oh,_” Jihoon chokes.

Jihoon has been to museums before, has seen Greco-Roman sculptures — the ultimate attestations to youthful male beauty: sleek muscles piled on broad shoulders and tapered waists; imperious gazes beneath tousled hair. And before him stands Seungcheol, vision enough to have those sculptures and artists turning in their graves.

Seungcheol kneels between his legs — tall, thick, and proud.

Jihoon swallows once, then twice. His reaches out, soft fingertips on the base of Seungcheol’s throat, before flattening his hand, palm curving over his chest. Seungcheol grunts softly and runs a soothing caress down Jihoon’s side, thumbs notching in the juncture of thigh and hip. Slowly, Jihoon traces his sloping muscles: skimming over bulging biceps, firm pecs; pressing down on the tight smooth expanse of stomach leading to thickly corded thighs. He halts, hand resting on Seungcheol’s hip. Standing smugly for attention is Seungcheol’s cock, impressively sized, thick, weighty, and red — tip shiny with pre-come.

“Fuck, Cheol,” Jihoon croaks. Seungcheol smirks and leans back into him, nuzzling against his neck and tugging at the lace collar. “_Ahhhhnn_, you’re - f-fuck,” Jihoon can’t finish, can’t form coherent words past the hot slide of skin against his.

Chuckling darkly, Seungcheol slips down Jihoon’s body, pressing branding kisses to his feverish skin as he goes. “You too, Jihoon,” he says, making quick work of Jihoon’s pants.

If Jihoon was in his right mind and not drowning in heat and the rich, musky scent of Seungcheol’s skin, he would’ve had the presence of mind to squeak a protest when Seungcheol rips his jeans off. As it is, when Seungcheol freeze at the sight of Jihoon’s underwear — muscles locking and expressive eyes wide — Jihoon only flushes and looks off to the side.

“It was this or I go commando,” He grumbles, his voice pitching to a whispering gravel.

A low rumble starts in Seungcheol’s chest that quickly tapered off to a keening groan. He rubs a rough thumb over Jihoon’s hip. Said boy is clad in a sinfully sheer pair of pink, lacy panties. They are not quite a thong, but the material rides low on his hips and high on the smooth, pert cheeks of his ass. “No complaints,” Seungcheol says, voice past baritone, dipping deep into a dark, thundering growl. He squeezes high up on Jihoon’s thighs, fingertips digging into his ass, and spreading his legs further apart so he can duck down and get a closer inspection of the panties. “No fucking complaints.”

Seungcheol pants heavily, hot air hitting Jihoon’s clothed cock and making him twitch. “_Hnn_, Cheol,” Jihoon gasped, fingers digging into the nape of his neck and back arching as Seungcheol scraps his bottom teeth against the jut of Jihoon’s hip bone.

Pressing a serrated smirk against the juncture of his thigh, Seungcheol slowly explores the newly bared terrain of Jihoon’s skin with sucking kisses and quick pinches of teeth. He bypasses Jihoon’s cock -- straining against the sheer material of his underwear, a noticeably wet spot where he’s leaking pre-come -- for the inside of his thighs. He nestles his head between Jihoon’s plump thighs, tight grip tattooing bruises into the skin as he sucks the soft flesh in his mouth.

“_Ahhn_, Cheol, Cheol - _oh, fuck, please,_” Jihoon whines, fingers scrambling against his scalp trying to guide Seungcheol to where he needs him most.

Seungcheol complies with a soft moan, mouth hot and wet as it closes around his cock through the silky fabric of his underwear.

“_Uhhn, oh, guh-yes, yes, please._” Jihoon is babbling, knows his moans are pitching in volume mixing with needy whines, but he can’t stop.

Seungcheol mutters a quick ‘fuck it’ before the tearing sounds of fabric echo through the room, and then, there is no barrier of fabric between Seungcheol’s hot mouth and Jihoon’s cock.

Jihoon hiccups on his moans, face turned into the arm thrown over his head and clutching the pillow.

Seungcheol fingers dig into Jihoon’s hips, keeping him still as delivers teasing kitten-licks to his cock, bobbing in quickly to suck on his tip — lapping up the consistent flow of bitter pre-come.

Open mouthed kisses trail from tips to base where Seungcheol applies harsh suction, one hand coming down to roll Jihoon’s balls.

Jihoon’s back bends into a harsh ‘U’ when Seungcheol finally engulfs his cock in tight, wet heat; Seungcheol’s tongue a firm pressure on the underside of his cock as he takes him deeper.

One hand fisted in the sheets above his head and the other in Seungcheol’s dark locks, Jihoon slits his eyes open long enough to see the long sweep of Seungcheol’s eyelashes — expression both concentrated and peaceful — as he bobs his head, loud slurping noises mixing with Jihoon’s strained groans.

Seungcheol pulls off for a short moment — long enough for Jihoon to whine at the touch of cold air on his cock — to rifle through his bedside table drawer to grab lube and a condom, then settles back between Jihoon’s legs.

Stroking Jihoon’s quivering flank, Seungcheol hikes Jihoon’s thighs further into the cradle of his arms, bringing the younger’s lower body off the bed. Jihoon’s abs clench and stand out starkly due to the strain.

“_Ahha_, S-Seungcheol,” Jihoon wants to cry, he wants to scream; his chest feels tight, lung greedily pulling in air. He wants Seungcheol’s mouth back on him, wants his fingertips marking his skin, he wants Seungcheol in him, pressing his body down into the bed; he wants is all, he wants to drown in it and choke on it, to suffocate in the sensations the other boy creates.

Seungcheol smiles — it’s not a safe smile — but his dimples pop out and a slow heat unfurls from Jihoon’s chest and settles in his groin.

Seungcheol licks a slow path between Jihoon’s pecs, down the middle of his abs, teasing sucks to the head of his weeping cock and the sensitive skin of his balls, then stops between his cheeks.

“You have the most amazing ass,” Seungcheol groans, hunkering down and biting quickly in the bottom of a pert cheek. Then, his tongue is gliding down the line of his ass, hands parting the firm flesh so he can flick a cursorily at the pink pucker of Jihoon’s hole.

Jihoon is leaning on his upper back, arms under his body to take some weight, fingers clenching hard and rucking up the bedsheets into a wrinkled mess. The angle puts pressure on his lungs, but that doesn’t stop the wanton moan from spilling past his lips, doesn’t stop the litany of pleas from quaking out.

Seungcheol gives firmer licks to his entrance, slowly teasing Jihoon into opening up for him. He slips in, just the tip of his tongue before pulling back to pressing sucking kisses to Jihoon’s skin. He can feel the continuous whimpers from the younger boy, feels his desperation in whining rumbles against his fingertips, in the tightening of his thighs around his head.

Waiting, Seungcheol switches between shallow thrust of his tongue and firm licks. He waits until Jihoon’s moans shatter into echoing sobs before thrusting fully into the younger’s clutching heat.

There is no reprieve for Jihoon. Seungcheol’s tongue fucks into him with deft skill, twisting and curling deeper only to slide back out and flick teasingly at his entrance. One of his hands slides from Jihoon’s thigh, down his side, to stop and tug harshly at a peaked nipple. Jihoon arches into the touch, rolling his hips as much as he can back onto Seungcheol’s tongue.

“More, more, _moremoremore_,” Jihoon pants, tossing his head back and forth on the pillow, fingers pulling the bed sheet taut beneath him, “More, please, Cheol, more! Just — just fuck me, oh God _fuck me_.”

Seungcheol chuckles into his skin, Jihoon only registers the laughter as a light vibration making him arch further. Slowly pulling back, Seungcheol gently brings Jihoon to rest fully on the bed.

Reaching for the lube, Seungcheol slicks up his fingers, gaze intent and covetous on Jihoon. The younger is temptation personified: sweat slicking creamy skin, causing his blond hair to stick darkly to his forehead and neck; his limbs fan out without thought — legs resting atop Seungcheol’s thighs and arms above his head, gripping the pillowcase like it’s his only tangible tether to this moment, _the here and now_; a dark flush pinks his cheeks and spreads to the top of his heaving chest.

Seungcheol presses one lubed finger into Jihoon’s spit-slick entrance, just to see the boy arch, his ribs poking out beneath muscle in stark relief. He builds a steady pace, testing thrust and small curls of his finger before he slips in a second one, scissoring him open.

Jihoon moans, long and senseless. He rolls back on the fingers pressing deeply inside of him, feels his inside ripple in a tight clutch when Seungcheol just grazes his prostate causing Jihoon’s sight to flicker.

“_Yes,_” Jihoon hisses as Seungcheol slips in a third finger; he’s riding high on the slight burn of the stretch, the delicious fullness of Seungcheol fingers. “Your fingers - _nnghh, oh fuck_ \- your fingers are so thick, so good. Seungcheol, _yes_!”

Jihoon’s vision whites out when Seungcheol hits his prostate dead on. His moan cracks into a guttural sob when Seungcheol takes the initiative to thrum his fingers against the gland. Jihoon’s torn between twisting away from the stimulation and rolling back into it; he can feel his cock hardening and his balls drawing tight. He can come like this, just like this, rolling back onto three of Seungcheol’s fingers, Seungcheol’s teeth worrying yet another bruise into his throat — high enough that no shirt will cover it.

But, he doesn’t want it like this, he wants to come with Seungcheol deep inside him. He tells him as much, pushing weakly at his shoulder, whining into the Seungcheol’s ear, “_Hnnng_, please, your cock, please w-want your cock, want to come with you inside me.”

Seungcheol groans into his skin, slowly pulling his fingers out with a slick sound. “I got you baby,” he murmurs, fumbling with the condom with slippery fingers.

He rips the condom open with his teeth, hurriedly rolling it over his cock — thick, red, and weeping — before smearing the remaining lube in a few quick strokes, hissing through clenched teeth.

Positioning himself at Jihoon’s prepped entrance, Seungcheol teases slightly, letting the head of his cock catch and pull on the boy’s slick, pink rim. Jihoon whimpers and thrusts back against Seungcheol, beyond desperate to get him in.

Gripping Jihoon’s hips, Seungcheol pulls the blond towards him as he slowly sinks into Jihoon’s tight, clutching heat. Dual moans fill the air; Jihoon winds his legs around Seungcheol’s waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and Seungcheol leans forward, pressing his forearms on either side of Jihoon’s head.

Seungcheol rocks in steadily, thrusts gentle enough for Jihoon to get used to his thick length spearing him open. He stills when he bottoms out, thighs molded to Jihoon’s ass, forehead pressed against Jihoon’s temple, and sharp pants beating hot air across the sensitive skin of Jihoon’s neck.

Jihoon twitches, muscles contracting around Seungcheol’s cock — he’s so thick, pressed in so deeply — Jihoon is nearly choking on the pleasure of the stretch, of a fullness he hasn’t felt in a few long months.

Moaning, Jihoon bucks against Seungcheol. He nudges his face to the side until he finds Seungcheol’s lips, sucking the bottom lip into his mouth. “Move,” he moans, voice hoarse and grating against his throat, “please, fucking move, fuck me. Fuc-”

Seungcheol cuts him off, ensnaring Jihoon in a rough kiss as he pulls out to the tip then thrusts in sharply, jostling the younger boy up the bed. He builds to a brutal rhythm — starting with shallow thrusts and a deep, steady roll of his hips.

Jihoon clings to his shoulders, bucks back against him in tight movements, moans obscenely into their kiss until he has to pull away; he has to gasp for air just so he can scream it back out as Seungcheol leans back onto his knees, clamps his hands onto Jihoon’s hips and pounds in unforgiving, deep thrusts. The new angle has Seungcheol glancing off Jihoon’s prostate every thrust in.

There’s not enough air in the room, not enough air to pull into his lungs. So, Jihoon gasps helplessly, tries to give voice to a string of praises and pleas, but all that emerges from his abused throat are cracked whines and breathy moans.

Seungcheol’s fucking in deep, skin smacking against skin, and Jihoon is jostled further and further up the bed; ass bouncing with each thurst. His hands find purchase pressing against the headboard, allowing him leverage to push back, to take Seungcheol in deeper.

The older boy groans and narrows his eyes at Jihoon — head tossed back, blond hair messily spread on the pillow, eyes slitted with lust; his bottom lip, swollen and pink, is caught between his teeth — he is the picture of concentrated pleasure. Sliding fever warm hands up Jihoon’s sides, he thumbs roughly at the boy's nipples, red and sensitive. He continues to follow a path from Jihoon’s hips to the stiff peaks of his nipples, never slowing his thrust, keeping aim for the spot inside Jihoon that has the younger boy sobbing.

Jihoon only has one, fleeting moment to wish Seungcheol’s hands would find purchase on his neglected cock before his hands grip onto his waist with bruising force and the world tilts. He finds himself seated in Seungcheol’s lap, sinking down on his thick length with a punched out moan.

“Come on, Jihoonie,” Seungcheol bucks his hips, bouncing Jihoon on his cock, letting his lips briefly graze the younger boy’s. “Ride me, baby.”

Jihoon whines, high and keening, in his throat. He wraps both arms around Seungcheol’s shoulders, one hand clutching the side of his neck, the other tangling in his dark hair. He lifts up slowly, feeling the pull of Seungcheol’s cock, before dropping down.

Seungcheol growls against his jaw and sucks against his pulse point. Jihoon lifts up again, angling his hips just right and drops back down, taking Seungcheol deep — his thick cockhead slamming into his prostate — feeling the strain in his thighs and stomach.

They fall into a rhythm, Jihoon bouncing in tandem with his rapid-fire heartbeat, his ass smacking down to meet Seungcheol’s thighs as he thrusts up, trying to get in as deep as possible.

The headboard is rocking into the wall with dull thuds, Seungcheol is moaning softly in Jihoon’s ear every time he slips back into the tight, velvet heat of the blond; one large hand rests on his waist encouraging his movements, the other trails to grab the leash, exerting just enough force for Jihoon to arch his neck, bend his back slightly.

Jihoon still clings to Seungcheol’s shoulders and neck as the older boy dives back in for his exposed throat; he still bounces with fervor, drunk off the feeling of Seungcheol’s thick cock splitting him open, pressing against his prostate and making everything explode into small fragments of sensation: a deep sob ripping from his throat, the soft texture of Seungcheol’s hair against his fingertips, the musky, heady scent of sex and the lighter tang of lemongrass, the excruciating rub on his cock trapped between the flexing of their stomachs.

Suddenly everything’s too tight, too much — Seungcheol pulls on the leash making him arch further, his hips snap up quicker — and Jihoon wails. “FUCK! Fuck, fuck, Cheol, I-I-”

Jihoon comes with a shudder, cock twitching and shoot thick ropes of cum between the slick slide of their chest. He tries to curl in on himself — feels the restricting jerk of the collar against his throat — to ride out the pleasure cresting in lulling waves.

He can feel Seungcheol moving, laying him back down on the bed, his hips rolling in a gentle parody of their previous activity as he helps Jihoon through the last throes of his orgasm. Jihoon is left flush and pliant. His voice hurts, and he’s dimly aware he must have screamed his way through an orgasm.

That all fades into the background, because Seungcheol is still hard, still inside of him, still moving slowly carefully trying not to overstimulate Jihoon. But, Jihoon feeds into the shocks of overstimulation, pushes back against Seungcheol, trying to encourage him to chase his own orgasm.

“Please,” he mumbles, voice wrecked and borderline delirious. “Ch-Cheol, please, fuck, come on. Come for me, please.”

Seungcheol is the one whining now, resuming a break-neck pace, pounding into the soft body beneath him, overstimulating Jihoon with electric shocks as he hits his prostate. Jihoon’s sure he may be speaking in tongues as he begs Seungcheol to come, needy hands pressing into his biceps, needing the shifting muscles beneath his fingertips.

“Fuck, Jihoon, fuck,” Seungcheol groans, voice scraped like gravel against stone. He shudders, then tenses; his face suddenly goes slack with pleasure, glistening plump lips parting on a moan. Jerking Jihoon forward by his shoulders so he can bury his face in his neck, Seungcheol comes, panting harshly and hips rolling smoothly before coming to a complete stop.

They stay there, wrapped in each other’s arms for a moment, harshly gulping in breaths of thick, humid air.

Seungcheol pulls away first, gently lays Jihoon down on the bed before carefully pulling out. He stands, wraps up the condom and throws it away in a nearby trash can.

Jihoon floats listlessly. He can hear Seungcheol moving around, registers the flicking of a light in a connecting bathroom, and the running of water. The soft press of a warm washcloth soothing across his skin and cleaning him off is welcomed with a soft sigh. Seungcheol laughs — nearly breathless — and places a quick kiss on Jihoon’s forehead before climbing back into bed with him.

Their hearts slow and their breathing evens out. Jihoon slings an arm over Seungcheol’s chest, and Seungcheol pulls him closer, slotting their legs together.

The outside sounds of the raging party trickle in. The bass is still thunderous, still booming throughout the house. Faint yells echo up to them. But, inside Seungcheol’s room, the noise of the party is relatively muted.

Jihoon takes comfort in the thud of the heart beneath his ear, the smell of sex and something purely Seungcheol, and the warm rise and fall of Seungcheol’s chest.

“Fuck,” Jihoon sighs, nestling closer to Seungcheol, tucking his nose right up against the base of his neck.

“What? That good?” There is an undeniable smirk in Seungcheol’s voice.

“No,” Jihoon grunts, “these fucking clip-on cat ears are tangled in my hair. But, yeah, that good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have come to the conclusion that I am shit at self-imposed deadlines. I was trying to post this in time for Jicheol's 6th anniversary wedding day.
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you! Feel free to leave a kudos or comment if you liked this. Or, you can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CaratCoffee) \- I'm a fun little ball of social anxiety.
> 
> <3 Coffee


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